A Therapist.
Chicago. Twenty twenty-five. October sixth.

My patients talk about mirrors now. It started as one, then three, then half my caseload. Delays, distortions, movements that didn’t belong to them.

I took notes. Hallucination? Sleep deprivation? Shared delusion? I told them to breathe. To ground themselves. To focus on what was real.

Then I stayed late one night. The waiting room mirror caught me as I passed. I looked tired. Older than I like. I sighed. The reflection smiled.

Not tired. Not older. It smiled.

I dropped my pen. The reflection bent to pick it up before I did. We straightened in sync, but the damage was done.

I haven’t told anyone. Who would I tell? My patients? My colleagues? I’d sound like a case study in denial.

I keep thinking about what a mirror is for: showing you what you don’t see yourself. I worry this one is only beginning.